


roots may grow

by arochill



Series: Begin Again (Dream SMP) [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, Ghosts, Memory Loss, Past Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochill/pseuds/arochill
Summary: Wilbur was tired. He just wanted to rest.Not yet, the world whispered to him. Not yet.(If he listened hard enough, he could still hear Tommy and Phil crying.)
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Begin Again (Dream SMP) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195076
Comments: 13
Kudos: 301





	roots may grow

They liked him better now that he was dead, he could tell. Sure, he saw the guilt and pain in their eyes everytime they looked at him but – they smiled more. They laughed more. He couldn’t remember much but he knew they haven't smiled like that in a long time. _Especially_ not at him.

He watched as, with trembling, war calloused hands they built houses in the crater of an explosion. He watched as they smiled at each other with a hesitance he couldn’t fully understand. He watched as they got to know each other again in a way he knew that hadn’t in months – years?

He couldn’t remember.

He didn’t remember much of what alive Wilbur did.

What he did remember was waking up. He remembered a warmth that he hadn’t felt in a long time flooding through his body and then excruciating pain in his abdomen. He remembered screaming and hearing a loud gasp as his eyes opened and then he remembered—

They were happy.

Tubbo was president. He was perfect for the job.

Wilbur didn’t know why every time he saw him it felt like someone was once again stabbing through his chest.

They liked talking to him. It was strange. They talked about anything and everything and they never talked about the past. He didn’t understand it. He tried asking, once, what happened to L’Manburg after the elections. Tubbo had tried to explain it, he thinks. But everything he said was like static. No one else tried – not that he remembered.

Wilbur didn’t know he could feel tired when he was dead. But the exhaustion that overcame him was constant. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t sleep.

It made sense, he supposed.

He had to watch as—

(everything he tore down was rebuilt and fixed in a way he could never do.)

Things felt… lighter, in a way, now that he was dead. He didn’t understand it. He _couldn’t_ understand it. Tommy couldn’t look him in the eyes and it broke Wilbur’s heart. He tried to keep away from Tommy as much as he could. He didn’t know what he did. He did know that it was his fault.

It was _always_ his fault.

He wanted to know what he did.

(No, he didn’t.)

He didn’t remember how he died, not really. (He remembered a sword, and a green and white hat, and-)

He did remember that Phil was there, holding his hand and clutching him tight when the last breath left his lungs. Always protecting him. (He didn’t remember the man crying, pleading for him not to die.)

He hadn’t seen Phil since he woke up.

He was okay with that. He understood.

It had been his own fault—

(for asking him to kill him. Was he proud yet? Will he ever be proud? Was he happier now that Wilbur was gone and replaced with him. With this husk of the man he was.)

He had a library now. Well, it wasn’t really a library. It was a small room, and it had his books, and he knew that it made him happy. He hadn’t read them all yet. He didn’t know what would happen if he read them. He didn’t know if he could look through the tear stained pages of some of the books. He knew he should remember what their contents were but-

He helped out when he could. Sometimes his hands phased through the wood and he was stuck watching from the sidelines. Other times he picked up the wood and nails and quietly helped them build. They smiled and said thank you, and he was glad that they didn’t mind.

He saw Tommy, sometimes, helping with the rebuilding. Those were the moments in which his hands began to flicker and fade the most and he always, _always_ disappeared before Tommy had a chance at spotting him.

He didn’t really leave L’Manburg. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t know why that was. It just felt wrong.

(It _hurt,_ the one time he tried. He didn’t try again.)

“I’m scared, Niki.”

“That’s okay. I promise. You’re allowed to be scared. I’m scared too.”

“Will he ever remember? …Why won’t he talk to me, Niki?”

“I don’t know, Tommy. I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”

Wilbur was used to pain. His chest burnt, always. That should worry him.

It didn't.

Tommy was angry at him. Tommy hated him. Tommy blamed him for everything. Wilbur didn’t know how to ask for forgiveness.

He didn’t know—

(if he even _wanted_ to ask for forgiveness. It had to be blown up. It _had_ to.)

Wilbur had watched Tommy grow up. He watched as a quiet, angry boy became a loud, angry teen. He watched as a loud, angry teen became a mature almost-adult. He didn’t know why that made him feel so much guilt.

Tommy always got into trouble.

_(“You’ll be okay, Tommy. I’m not going anywhere. See? Just asking Phil to bring some help, okay?”_

_Tommy, holding a bleeding knee, trying not to cry, nodded. He sniffled and wiped at his nose and didn’t look Wilbur in the eyes._

_“I’ll never leave you alone, okay? Look at me. I’m here. You don’t need to be strong right now, Tommy. I’ve got you. I promise.”)_

Tommy hadn’t realised he was dead, at first.

Tommy had seen him and he had tried to punch him in the face and his fist had gone straight through.

Wilbur had wished so very desperately to wipe away the tears that fell down Tommy’s face, but he didn’t have a chance. Tommy ran. Tommy ran and he didn’t look back.

Wilbur didn’t want to cause him more pain than he already had, so he kept away. Tommy had people in his corner. He had people in his corner who were better than Wilbur would ever be. He had Tubbo, and Niki, and he had Phil now–

Wilbur kept away.

They thought it was better that he was dead.

 _He_ thought it was better.

This way, he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

(He knew this was a lie.)

Tommy kept trying to talk to him. Niki told him this. Niki asked that he stopped trying to run, and she had a small, sad frown on her face.

The next time Wilbur saw Tommy, he sat on one of the many rocks left over from L’Manburg and he had waited.

“This is your fault.”

“I know.”

“You did this.”

“I know.”

“We had it back.”

“I know.”

“You promised.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t need to die.”

“I kn-”

Wilbur turned.

Tommy wasn’t looking at him. Tommy had tears falling down his face but his cries were muffled by his hand. Tommy was holding a brown, blood stained coat in his hands, clutching onto it for dear life. Tommy wasn’t looking at him.

“Look at me, Tommy.”

Tommy didn’t move. 

“Tommy.”

Tommy gripped the fabric in his hands tighter.

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy ran.

Wilbur was a liar.

He was dead. He knew it was time to stop lying.

He watched them fix what he had destroyed. He remembered Phil, whispering apologies, pleading, his white and green bucket hat on the ground beside them as he rocked them back and forth as if he was a child again.

He wanted to ask for forgiveness, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew the reason they still smiled at him was because they didn’t want him to break all over again.

He made promises, over and over again, and he broke every single one of them.

Phil didn’t come back to L’Manburg. Wilbur didn’t know where Techno had gone. Tommy was left behind. Over and over again, Tommy was left behind. Tommy tried so hard, every day, and no one ever cared.

It was Wilbur’s fault.

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy lifted his head up and turned to the left. Wilbur gripped the edges of his clothes – blue, gold, new and old all at once, and full of memories he knew he may never fully remember.

Tommy was silent as he stared.

“I thought it’d be better, after. Without me.”

Tommy opened his mouth. Wilbur shook his head.

“It was my fault. _Everything_ was my fault. None of you should have needed to deal with me after what I did. I just– I wish–”

“You’re a self righteous _moron,_ Wilbur. I hate you. I hate you so, so _fucking_ much. _My fault. All my fault._ So why didn’t you stay, and pay for what you did? Why did you, why’d you–” Tommy rubbed at his eyes. “I love you, Wilbur. I fucking _love you,_ and I hate that you chose to die instead of… L’Manburg will live on, Wilbur. Even now. I… We won’t let anything destroy it. Not again. _Never_ again, Wilbur.”

The uniform Wilbur was wearing felt light for once.

(He didn’t remember the last time it hadn’t felt constricting.)

The hug Tommy pulled him into left him cold, and warm, and for a short, quiet moment it almost felt like he could breathe again.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

“…I know, Wilbur. I know.”

The first time Wilbur stepped out of L’Manburg after his death, it was to speak to Tommy at the bench outside the boys home. It was also the last time. It hurt. It was the first time he has smiled, _properly, truthfully_ smiled, in a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed. i’m just so very invested in wilbur and ghostbur is such an interesting character?? I had to write this. also someone give tommy a hug all his family has pretty much left him at this point.
> 
> please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed? i cannot express how much i love hearing what people think!


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